Beyond the Notes | 16. Must the Winter Come So Soon?
Midsummer is full of light, yet in this fullness, we take our next, gentle steps knowing that from now, the days will gradually begin to shorten. Like it or not, the longest day casts its own shadow.
Welcome to Rediscover · Reconnect · Re-Emerge. If you find the fleeting changes of modern life wearisome, maybe even overwhelming, join me on a journey, a path well-trodden, as I share heartfelt and often nostalgic reflections on living slowly, simply, and in tune with the seasons.
In this series, I share some of the pieces of music which have meant the most to me in my life, and the stories behind why they resonate so strongly within a life lived slowly and simply.
The summer solstice has passed, and the longest day has departed. In many respects, the year has reached its high point, the moment when light has expanded almost as far as possible; the sun has risen higher and higher, the night shrinking into a momentary pause. We are full of light, yet in this fullness, we take our next, gentle steps knowing that from now, the days will gradually begin to shorten.
Like it or not, the longest day casts its own shadow.
Last winter was hard. I thought I’d made peace with this darkest of seasons; learnt to live in a way which embraces rather than laments it, but last winter was long: some may say a winter too many. So whilst we rejoice in the fullness of light in our celebration of midsummer, many of us feel that distant pang of anxiety as we sit quietly with the realisation that the light is already retreating. Some might say I’m a killjoy - perhaps I am - but in the great, continuous circle of life, winter will return, and for many, that brings with it its own anxieties and unwelcome challenges.
I wonder how you feel at this moment when you realise that the light is already retreating, even in the warmth of midsummer?
In a world which rushes, which seeks to convince us to make the most of summer, it is, perhaps, in the slowing down, that we notice the small shifts. The societal expectation that we should make the most of summer can feel overwhelming, perhaps more so for those who feel winter’s weight ahead. Many will mourn the loss of warmth and colour, of the long, light evenings and early sunrises. Anticipatory grief is real, yet unspoken. I wonder how different life might be if we were to speak more openly about the emotional preparations needed for the darker months - before they arrive?
There is, of course, so much beauty in summer to enjoy - the beautiful roses, the abundant hedgerows, and the light, dusky evenings - but underneath, nature begins its slow, subtle shift. Seeds begin to form, trees begin to store their energy, and animals begin to gather. Even if we’re happy to live in blissful ignorance, nature knows what’s coming, and the preparations she makes in the months to come are essential for her survival. What if we too began gently preparing - emotionally and practically?
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Would it be so wrong for us to begin our winter preparations whilst still soaking in summer?
Preparations will look different for each and every one of us. For some, it might consist of preserving those fruits and vegetables found abundantly now - making jam, pickles, and chutneys. For others, it might be planning ahead for comforting rituals, journalling, considering our indoor lighting. How can we approach winter, not as something to dread, but as something to move gently towards - a thick, woollen blanket rather than a cold wall?
Yesterday, I published an entry in my online journal with five gentle midsummer practices to embrace the season slowly; practices that invite you to pause, notice, and prepare tenderly for the seasons ahead. From walking the same path each evening, to bringing the outside in, these small rituals are simple ways to embrace where we are now, and to begin planting seeds of winter ease.
Read more in the Journal at A Life More Creative.
The starting point for this reflection was the title from an aria in Samuel Barber’s opera, Vanessa, ‘Must the winter come so soon’. In this short, but poignant aria, Erika reflects on the bleakness of winter, using it as a metaphor for her inner loneliness and sense of isolation. Winter here is not just a season, it represents Erika's emotional desolation, longing, and resignation. For many of us, these are the pangs of anxiety we feel now as we look ahead.
But there’s no rush.
We don’t need to rush towards autumn, but we can begin to imagine a kinder winter from within the glow of midsummer. Winter will come, but winter will also depart. What if we could carry the warmth of now into the cold of then?
So as we emerge into midsummer, if the shortening days and the sense that the light is retreating start to tug at you, then take heart. You are not alone.
Must the winter come so soon?
It will.
But I hope that together, we can prepare gently and quietly for those darker months to come.
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Thank you, David. I enjoyed your gentle words which brought to mind the contrast of seasons in the northern and southern hemispheres. I lived in the UK once, looked forward to the different seasons, especially winters which meant soups, thick-crusted pies and heavy jumpers. And here in Australia, where I've lived for 50 years, I still look forward to the winters, albeit a much milder version of those in England. Actually, my ideal weather, blue-skied sunny days, cool enough to spend hours in the garden instead of early morning dashes in the summer before the sun becomes fierce. We still have soups (not so much the thick-crusted pies) and wear a few light layers of clothing that we can peel off as the warmth of the day heightens to a pleasant 24C.
This is beautiful David. Winter will begin before we even know it. But I am looking forward to it this time as life has been so chaotic this summer, there is hardly any time to stop.